I wrote a letter to the parole board, the people who will decide whether the drunk driver should be released. I think the letter is okay. It says what I needed it to say.
I’m thinking more clearly now. When I first got the news, everything felt foggy and unreal, like I was walking around underwater. I couldn’t sort through my thoughts. I couldn’t even tell what I was feeling half the time. But now I’m not in that daze anymore. My mind feels steadier. Grounded. I’m… okay. With this clarity has come something else.
With that clarity, the anger has come back.
I feel angry at this man who made a choice. A preventable, reckless choice. He decided to drink. He decided to drive. He decided that getting behind the wheel while intoxicated was acceptable. And Kevin paid for that decision. Kevin, who had just come back from Iraq. Kevin, who survived a war. Kevin, with his laugh and his girls who carry pieces of him in their faces and personality.
It makes the anger feel sharp. Because this wasn’t an accident in the purest sense. It was a chain of choices.
I think part of what feels different now is that the anger isn’t wild and consuming like it was in the beginning. It’s clearer. It has edges. It makes sense.
Writing the letter felt like reclaiming a small piece of my voice. Like saying: this mattered. He mattered. The loss matters.
But I’m ok now. I can take care of this.
Our car is in the shop right now because of that hail storm we had a while back. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal, just a loud, chaotic evening of ice falling from the sky. But afterward, we noticed the tiny dents scattered across the hood and roof. You can’t really see them unless you’re standing close and looking for them. From a normal distance, it looks completely fine.
Apparently, though, the damage adds up on paper. The insurance company thinks it’s extensive enough to total the car. That word sounds so dramatic—totaled—like it’s crushed and beyond saving. But it isn’t. It runs well. It’s reliable. It gets us where we need to go. We decided we’d rather keep it than take a payout that probably wouldn’t be enough to replace it with something comparable.
Today is actually beautiful outside, almost 70 degrees. It’s windy, but it’s that warm, almost-spring kind of wind. The dogs are loving it. They’ve been outside playing most of the day. Everest came in for a little while, like she just needed to check in and make sure I was still here, and then she decided outside was more exciting and asked to go back out. That’s been my main role today: official door operator. Open door. Close door. Open door. Close door. Merlin, on the other hand, seems perfectly content to stay out there and soak it all in.
Kel gets off work early today. So she should be home in a few hours. She left later, too. She borrowed her dad’s truck for the day. Chris brought it over and rode into the city with Tommy this morning. Alex rode into the city with Kel. The house is pretty quiet.
As for me… I’m doing okay. And I think “okay” is honest. Earlier, there was anger bubbling up again, but that’s faded for now. What’s left is more of a quiet sadness. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. I’m not spiraling. I’m not numb. I’m just here in it.
I made myself some matcha tea with oatmilk. I resent the oatmilk trend. I don’t drink it to be cool or curated, I drink it because lactose and I are not friends. But now, when I order it or make tea myself and use oatmilk, I feel like I’m signing up for an identity I didn’t consent to. I’m not making a statement. I’m avoiding gastrointestinal consequences.
We’re having tacos again tonight. We picked up some really good al pastor from the Mexican supermarket in the city. We used half of it last night, and we’re finishing the rest tonight. I love it when dinner is basically decided. I’m happy about dinner. I can feel my mood lifting.
Kel should be home any minute now. I’m going to post this and then try to get a little more studying in before we eat. I’ve had to reread a few chapters because my brain just hasn’t wanted to cooperate today. It’s been one of those focus-is-slippery kind of days.
